Tag: flash fiction

ZoZo 20.October.22 The circle of life.

Written in 20 minutes, with the Carrizozo Writers- Raw, unedited, exactly as it flowed through my fingers to the keyboard

Enid had that old red suitcase. She’d had it for years. It had been her Mama’s suitcase before she passed away.

Enid was a trouper, a show girl, an actress, just like her Mama had been. That suitcase had traveled back and forth, across the country, at least a couple hundred times. Mostly on trains, but sometimes in the back of an automobile or a pickup truck; the stories that bag could most likely tell.

It was covered in embroidered patches now, New York, Atlanta, LA, Chicago, and Denver, just to name a few. Enid had made it a point to visit as many of the places that her Mama had done. She worked in many of the theatres where her Mama had worked, too. Even played some of the same parts that she had played, sang the same songs that she remembered her Mama used to sing to her as they rode the rails. Sometimes in first class, sometimes in boxcars.

The show must go on! There was always work, for a talented and versatile performer. That’s what Enid had learned from Mama. Don’t let yourself become dependent on some no good man. She had learned that too.

Enid never knew who her father was. She didn’t need to know. She was an independent woman.

She had spent some time with men, just like her Mama had done when a show ran for a long time. That mostly happened in big cities, Like New York, or San Francisco, or Dallas. Not too long ago she had spent almost six months in Kansas City, of all places. She had met a gentleman there, a stagehand, who claimed to be a distant relative of Wyatt Earp. He had been a kind man and she had allowed him to become a little more familiar than she mighta should have. It wasn’t the first time, but now she was beginning to feel a little nauseated in the mornings. Her appetite was off.

She suspected that she was going to pass this suitcase on to her own daughter soon.

##

time’s up – step away

The prompts

  1. so kind of you
  2. a battered old suitcase
  3. where we’ve been

The House at #4

Harvey moved to Rush Street in January of this year. He had bought the house at number five. It was a good-sized two-story home with three bedrooms and 2.5 baths, a great neighbourhood. An expansive “green belt” out back provided a view of manicured parkland that he could see from the back. The house next door (number four) housed an attractive thirty-something lady named Tessa. Tessa lived alone and liked to bake cupcakes. A different batch each week.

She made red velvet cupcakes, gingerbread cupcakes and chocolate chip cupcakes. She made Caramel Apple, Mint Oreo, Lemon, Chocolate Berry, Churro, and on and on. It was a seemingly endless variety of flavours. Tessa delivered cupcakes to all her family members, friends, and neighbours.

The first time that she delivered to Harvey’s house, she brought Snickerdoodle cakes. The next time was Devil’s Food with Coconut. By the time she brought him the Lemon Raspberry cakes he knew that he was in love.

A whirlwind courtship preceded a quickie service in Vegas. complete with Wedding Cake cupcakes – Iced with Vanilla Buttercream and monochromatic Confetti Sprinkles. They stayed in Nevada for three days after the service for a Honeymoon. They visited bake shops during the day. Places like La Belle Terre Bakery and Café, Patisserie Manon, and Le Macaron. At night they would retreat to their hotel room for an evening of sweet pastries and debauchery.

They returned to Rush Street and the newlyweds sold the house at number five. They moved in together at number four where all the baking supplies and tools resided.

Harv put on almost 75 pounds in less than two years and Tessa found it more and more difficult to look at him. Their love palled. Tessa tried to breathe life back into their marriage, they had been so happy. She changed the way that she dressed, and she cut back on her baking, but it was all to no avail. She had lost him. Tessa filed for divorce and plead, “Irreconcilable differences.” The judge agreed and granted the request. Harv moved out of number 4 and agonized over where to move next, Pie Town New Mexico or Cookietown, Oklahoma. Eventually settling in Oklahoma.

Tessa, for her part, moved to Maine and bought an island in Piscataquis County. She changed the name from Witham Island to Cupcake Island. It has its very own zip code (04414). If you find yourself up there, stop by “04414 Cupcakes.”

Any flavour is wonderful but I usually order anything with Lemon. I love Lemon. And, give my best to Tessa.

AMF

I pulled my pickup into the back lot of the Bourbon & Branch and parked in the far corner, away from the door. My shift ran from eight at night to four in the morning. I caught some of the good-time crowd early. Then I watched as the demographics changed. Changed from the beautiful people to the drunk people. Drunken people who had yet to realize they missed their chance for a hook up. There were a few regulars. They came in about midnight and closed us up at 0400.

The place was hoppin’ when I arrived. I waved to Connie as I came through the back door. She nodded to acknowledge me and went back to work. She pulling a tray full of Guinness Stouts for one of the tables against the wall.

After she handed the tray of drinks back to the server, Marny she meandered down the bar to turn over the reins to me. She looked tired and ready to finish for the rest of the night and the morning.

“Evening, Jake,” she started.

“What’s up, Connie,” I said.

I’m not a big talker, which explains why I work till four in the morning. The customers, after midnight, aren’t here to talk. They’re drinkers.

“Everything’s going smooth,” she said. “All the barrels are fresh changed within the last couple of hours, except for the Hoegaarden. You’ll need to change that before the night is over.”

I nodded.

“The crowd is about what you’d expect. Down at that end of the bar, we got a local guy. Named Daniel, and he’s cryin’ in his beer ‘cause his wife up and left him. You know Daniel, he lives three doors down from here, towards the church.”

“Yeah,” I said, “he’s been in a couple of times.” I craned my neck to see him sitting at the bar, slumped over something blue, in a glass

Connie nodded, “Seems she left him for a guy who lives two blocks over from the park, named Nick Masters. I don’t know him.”

“Me neither,” I shrugged my shoulders. “What’s Daniel drinking?”

Connie grimaced, “He calls it an Adios Motherfucker, and it has equal parts of vodka, rum, gin, tequila, and Blue Curaçao. Gotta be nasty, and he’s working on his fourth one.”

Turnover completed, Connie went home, and I got to work. I checked everyone at the bar, got more drinks, as required, and clocked in with Daniel.

He wasn’t doing well; he still slumped over his drink. He was literally crying when he asked for another one. I asked him if he was sure, and how he was getting home.

He said he was sure, and that he was walking home. I made him another AMF. He was quiet. He wasn’t bothering anyone. I figured it was alright for him to sit and cry a while longer. He sat, shit-faced, nursing his drink until he exploded. Which was when Nick Masters walked in with Daniel’s wife, Emmy, on his arm.

Danny spun around on his bar stool and leaned back. “You son-of-a-bitch, Masters!” Daniel yelled. “I’m not letting you bring her back. You’re stuck with her.” He picked up his blue drink and flung it in their general direction. He missed wide, but managed to signal for another AMF.

I got busy.

OLWG# 245- Haibun 03.02.22

Written for OLWG# 245

I found myself in a cold sweat standing outside Bobby’s place. The wind was blowin’ in hard, from the gulf. I pounded on his door until that chick, Remy, answered, and then I pushed my way inside.
“What the hell?” The chick asks, fumblin’ for a smoke.
“Where’s Bobby?”
“He’s gone to Tupelo. His Momma’s sick.”
“I need some Percs. You got some?”
“No, we only got dors and fours.”

Codeine wraps her warm
arms around him and, he is
lost in her embrace

This week’s prompts were:

  1. a young man sleeps with his dreams
  2. fumbling for a cigarette
  3. more money than sense

OLWG# 243- Peggy

Written for OLWG# 243

When Peggy came back, she found herself sitting in a chrome-tubed vinyl chair pulled up next to the round Formica kitchen table that had belonged to her mother. It took some time to recover her senses, and when she did, she was staring at the tabletop. The radio played Johnny Cash softly in the background, and the back door stood open. The screen door stood shut, but the screen, itself, was torn from top to bottom.

The scars and stains of the table stared back at her. She knew them as well as they knew her. There were chared spots around the edge of the table, from where her mother had set cigarettes and forgotten to pick them back up. There were gouges put into the top by knives and forks over the years. There were patches where the charcoal boomerangs and spots were almost entirely worn off from years of cleaning, wiping with hand towels and sponges. There was the chip at the edge for which no one had ever claimed responsibility.

The music faded and, Deacon Smith, the radio host, began spouting the inane monologue for which he was well known. Thankfully he didn’t tie up the airwaves too long before Johnny Cash started singing again. This time a cover version of a Nine Inch Nails hit.

Peggy thought about the ghosts on the radio, were they like the spirits in the house? What was the purpose of a ghost, anyway? Was there a meaning to what was happening to her? If so, she couldn’t figure it out. Maybe she wasn’t meant to understand. Perhaps she was incapable of understanding. She hoped that it might all become clear after she had endured all that she could stand. Should she be more frightened of the ghosts than she was? Should she take comfort in their presence? She reached for the half-full bottle sitting at the centre of the table. Reaching for the comfort that she could understand. Comfort that she desired more than anything in the world, right now.

How long had she been gone? Where had she been?

This week’s prompts were:

  1. old country love songs
  2. you brought this on yourself
  3. ghosts on the radio

OLWG# 242- Summer Work

Written for OLWG# 242

I used to take summer jobs when I was in high school. On one of those breaks, I took a job as a painter, not a house painter but a picture painter; I was fifteen years old.

The boss was a guy named ‘Frank.’ He ran the business with his wife, Ellen and made it his mission to earn as much money as possible while providing affordable art. Selling to aficionados. Collectors who might have fallen on hard times or otherwise found it hard to pay for what many folks considered to be extravagances. 

The potential customer would contact Frank about acquiring a piece. Frank would collect the pertinent information, like:

  1. What’s your preferred palette?
  2. Do you want a portrait, landscape, seascape, still life, abstracts, non-objectives, or something else?
  3. What medium: Oils, acrylics, watercolour, pen and ink, charcoal, pencil, pastels?
  4. How much space do you need to fill? Just above the couch? Over a headboard? In the dining room? The hallway? etc.?
  5. How much money do you have to spend?

Frank hired people like me who could draw and paint. I was the youngest employee and the only high school student. He hired housewifes, pensioners, and college kids; mostly housewifes, though.

He paid us by the hour. It was a working business model. I was doing what I loved and making good money for a high school kid, in those days.

Then it happened, Frank was contacted by Frau Vermietung, whose husband was a pilot working out of Holloman. The Vermietungs wanted some artwork to reflect the Contemporary Mexican style; she wanted tapestries, weavings, or needleworks. Frank then needed an artist with the skills to comply. I introduced him to Amarissa Becerra Alemán. Amarissa and I had been in the same classes since grade five. She was a weaver and kept a large floor loom set up in the front room of her house. She would take commission work to help out and earn money for her family.

When Frank saw her textiles, he offered me a bonus. I told him to give the extra money to Amarissa.

Amarissa invested as little as possible into the materials for her tapestries. Cheap cotton string served as the warp and heavy yarns were the weft.

Frank asked her to make a serape featuring bright greens, blues, and yellows for Fr. Vermietung to hang over the fireplace. Amarissa gave it to him the next day, it was flawless. The Vermietungs fell in love with it and immediately ordered five more.

Not more than a month later Amarissa and her family disappeared. Word was, that a warrant was out on her dad, don’t know what for, most likely bullshit.

It is easy to disappear in the interior of Mexico.

This week’s prompts were:

  1. affordable art
  2. a colourful serape
  3. sinners, strangers all

OLWG# 241- Fierte

Written for OLWG# 241

Samantha peeked in the door at ‘Fierte’ and shuddered. She backed out again to the sidewalk, took a deep breath, ran her fingers through her hair, opened the door again, and this time went all the way in. She attempted to portray confidence threading her way between the tables to the long bar that ran the entire east wall. She caught the eye of the middle-aged woman who raised her head in acknowledgement. Sam waited and surveyed the place. The joint was hopping; the dance floor packed, the music cranked up loud. Mirrors were on every wall. The clientele seemed comprised of millennial nerds and geeks. They were all occupied – watching their reflections as they sat drinking, dancing, or staring at a few of the fittest girls and boys in the room. The women were young and pretty, so were the boys.

The lady arrived and stuck out her hand. “You must be Samantha?” she said. “I’m Moonbeam. I own this joint, and you’re looking for a job. I can’t tell you how glad I am you called. You have bartending experience, right?”

“I do,” Samantha said.

“You OK with an LGBTQ crowd?”

“I am.”

“Great, you might have to expand your knowledge of mixology.” Moonbeam smiled.

“In what way?” Sam asked, “I’m already a pretty good bartender.”

“Our clientele are somewhat eclectic drinkers. The hottest selling drink here is an Oregano Slingshot. Have you ever made a White Howler or a Garlic Zombie?”

“White Howler’s I know,” Sam answered, “Half and Half with a spiced whisky; sometimes a coffee liqueur. The drink is creamy but surprisingly smooth in the exit, leaving your mouth with trails of warm spices followed by a fading hint of butterscotch, or cacao, depending on which whiskey you use. I don’t think I ever heard of the other two.”

Moonbeam snapped her fingers, “You are halfway there, babe. How about an Almond Slapper? A Spirit Stinger? Maybe, a Coconut Murder or a warm Fancy Bear?”

Samantha shook her head.

Moonbeam looked her over. She must have liked what she saw, “When can you start?”

“Well, I…”

“You keep all the tips at the bar. Servers split their tips with you. You have most likely made all the other drinks before. Here we just, – Oh, I don’t know, make them in a more organic way and rename them to appeal to our customer base.”

Samantha thought about the offer. She was a little nervous about working only for tips, but the place was packed, and it was a Tuesday. She opened her mouth to ask if the business was always this brisk when Moonbeam began to sweeten the pot.

“I can’t give you an hourly wage here – Union rules, you know, but I can promise you a generous salary to go with those tips. I also offer a comprehensive health care for employees, profit sharing and a 401K. “Whadda ya think?”

Sam shook her head and wondered aloud, “Can this be real? I think I like it.”

 

This week’s prompts were:

  1. in a more organic way
  2. the devil makes three
  3. a girl with a grudge

OLWG# 240- Take Her to Church

I spent longer than I meant to on this, but…

Written for OLWG# 240

Shortly after Kayleigh and I got married, there were a few issues at work and, we had to move in with her parents. It was less than a month before Christmas and, I wasn’t feeling good about the situation, but Kayleigh’s parents, Frank and Ann, were good people and never made me feel as though we were imposing.

On the Sunday morning before the holiday, Frank and I found ourselves watching golf together on television. Frank was big on golf and, it was his TV. I watched whatever Frank was watching.

“Aside from dinner, here at the house, what are you and Kayleigh going to do on Christmas?” Frank asked.

“We haven’t talked about it.” I said, “Do you guys have any family traditions that I should know about?”

“Take her to church.” Frank advised, “That can be quite…memorable.”

“I’ll talk with her about that, Frank,” I said.

Frank smiled and turned his attention back to the golf on TV. That evening I asked Kayleigh if she wanted to go to church on Christmas and, she seemed excited about the idea. I admit that this surprised me, as I had never known her to care about religion, one way or another.

When Christmas came, Kayleigh got dressed up for church and made sure that I looked presentable as well. We loaded into the car and drove only a mile or two to the church that Kayleigh and her family had attended when she was growing up. We got there just as the organist began playing what I assumed might be a “Call to Worship.” We hustled inside. Kayleigh paused in the Narthex and said, “I want to sign the guest book. Give me just a minute.” I nodded and looked through the window into the sanctuary. There were folks seated in the dark wooden pews. I could see the choir sitting on a dais in front of the congregation. There was no one at the pulpit, so I assumed we were on time.

Kayleigh started giggling as she put the pen down.

“What?” I asked.

She pointed at the guest book, so I walked over. I could see where she had written two names down. A closer look showed that the first name read Hugh G. Rection and, the second was Oliver Klozoff. I smiled, shook my head, and took her arm. We headed inside the quiet sanctuary. About halfway down to the front, Kayleigh spotted some seats that looked like they might accommodate us. She paused, pointed at the available seats and in a too-loud voice asked, “Excuse me, are these seats saved? Do you mind if my husband and I sit here?” The gentleman sitting nearby first shook his head, then nodded in assent.

Kayleigh grabbed my hand and shouted, “come on, honey, let’s sit here.” It was quite a production for her to get settled and, when she finally did, she farted loudly. “Hark!” she exclaimed, “An angel has spoken.” Tittering into her hand, she leaned back and settled in the pew, waiting. As if on cue, the choir rose and sang a hymn that I did not recognize as the pastor, and a few other church officials filed in and took their seats up front, on the dais.

Kayleigh chose that moment to rifle through her purse and come up with a pack of cigarettes and a pink plastic lighter. She leaned over to the gentleman she had spoken to earlier about the seat availability before asking, in a stage whisper, “Do you guys have the ashtray?”

He shook his head and looked at her in disgust. Kayleigh adopted an offended expression on her face. “Well, excuse me,” she said and returned the cigarettes to her purse. When the choir began another song, Kayleigh turned to me, “Christ, Bobby,” she said, “do they have to sing again?” I patted her arm to hush her and, she gradually calmed down for the song. When it was over, there was a huddle on the dais. Finally, a solitary man made his way to the pulpit. I assumed him to be the pastor of the church.

He spread his arms and addressed his flock, “Folks, those of you who have been coming here for a while will no doubt recognize that the always entertaining Kayleigh is back. We’re glad you’re here Kayleigh, we’ve missed you.”

Kayleigh kept her seat and waved.

I looked at her, wide-eyed. A smattering of soft laughter and applause echoed in the sanctuary.

When the congregation quieted again, Kayleigh hollered up at the pastor, “I’ve missed you too, preacher. Are you coming over for Christmas dinner today?” She jabbed her elbow into my ribs, “That’s my cousin, Richey,” she whispered.

This week’s prompts were:

  1. you lost more than your hair
  2. take her to church
  3. we’re going to the store
%d bloggers like this: